


Graduation Day

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:39:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They start the experiments then, out of boredom, really, everything they can think of, and it's easy to get a little amoral about the damage you cause when it just disappears after two weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graduation Day

**Author's Note:**

> **Rating:** NC-17 FOR--OKAY. HERE WE GO. Scat ( I said it!). MENTIONS OF: necrophilia, bestiality, bloodplay, watersports, basically, probably every kink (safe or not) I could shove a mention of in there. It’s there. But they're mentions! Not descriptions!)
> 
> WHY YOU SHOULD READ THIS: I don't particularly care for scat. I don't read it voluntarily, and I don't find it something I want to incorporate into my (admittedly MIA) sex life. THAT SAID, it is a valid kink, and as long as you're not a) hurting someone against their wishes b) breaking the law and/or c) corrupting a minor, I am cool with what you do. Just…not in my bathroom. I don't want to get into the safety complications, because whatevs.
> 
> In light of that, I decided that I should see what the fuss was about. No, totes not my cup of tea, but I understand a little better. And the fic isn't really ALL about the consumption of fecal matter (in fact, that doesn't even happen). It's about lots of other things too, and that isn't even a very accurate description of what goes on. Anyway.
> 
> Like three people are going to read this. One will comment. If you read it and you like it, or you didn't like it, anon commenting is on, or drop me an email. If you skip it just because of the warning, then that's okay too. If you read it and then skip out when we get to the squick, well then cool!, because I thought the first half of the fic was funny in and of itself, and you tried. You really did, and that is cool too.
> 
> Anyway, in this day an age with warnings, of course I want to warn, but I'm a little sad because I think that the SCAT will scare people away who otherwise might read it and go "ewwww" for part of it (I gave you a cypher!), but admit, "hey, that wasn't my kink, but I get it here." I didn't want to read about the cow fucking in Beloved, but there it was, and I was like. "Oh. okay."
> 
> If you are into scat, I'm curious to hear about the…impetus behind it. The internets is almost too crass, and I think it's more complicated. (I sense. I don't know for sure). Comment anon or send me an email at amandr @ gmail dot com. I am discreet.
> 
> Lastly, even though their names aren't Jack or John technically in this timeline, I use that for lack of better ones.

After the first year of trying to get the fuck out and failing, they decide, after about five rotations, that there's only so much pain they can cause, and then, three months later, that even if the two weeks resets itself, they still have to get up with hangovers every day, and John is a fucking bitch to deal with. And there are only so many drugs they can make or procure with their small funds and cache of household cleaning products.

So they fuck each other, and then they fuck the few denizens of the neighbouring houses, because they can never go far without ending up right where they started, actually. They fuck themselves and they watch themselves fucking themselves, and John rigs up every mirror from the whole area so that he can place himself inside a goddamn mirrorball and come all over Jack in like, _disco_.

It's around this time that they decide to make themselves 'Sexperts', for the betterment of the universe, really, and if they ever get out of here, they are going to write a book. John wants to go on tour with his dick. He goes on at length about how they'll sign all their autographs with their pricks.

They start the experiments then, out of boredom, really, everything they can think of, and it's easy to get a little amoral about the damage you cause when it just disappears after two weeks. So they do a little of this, a little of that, some almost-snuff, some flaying, whipping, blooding, all that happy horse shit.

Jack gathers all the tech they have and tries to make a gender switching machine because he is, as he tells John one night while stretching his arse with his balled fist, 'desperate for some new vag'.

John comes home with a few chicken-looking creatures he's nicked from the neighbouring farm, and Jack shakes his head in horror and tries to go back to his crossword puzzle, the one he finished a year and a half ago. John just shakes the crate and smiles, disappearing into the bedroom, a trail of blue feathers in his wake. Jack tries to pretend that the clues are all new and interesting, until the screeching starts, and then he bangs his head on the table once, twice, before abandoning boredom and sauntering into the bedroom like he has intended to be in there all along.

That evening John makes a fry up, and they pick the bones clean and toss them out into the yard. Jack finds blue down under his foreskin the next day when he showers.

It takes about a year before they decide that they've climbed every foreskin, sucked every clit, as he tells John in a funny falsetto, pretending that he's an opera singing nun. And it hasn't been pretty either, chicken fucking aside. There had been a lonely three days waiting for the time loop to reset while John's body rotted in the corner, electrodes still stuck to his chest. And then the time Jack had begged John to kill him after he'd gotten too choppy with the knives and Jack had been forced to confront the sheer agony of castration before falling forward on the knife and popping back into the beginning of the loop a 'week' later (he couldn't even deck John for it, not really, because he'd asked for it). He hadn't asked John what he'd done in the meantime, but John had written a monograph entitled, 'The Care and Fucking of the Dead,' with footnotes. Jack had never been so glad when the loop had reset itself and he hadn't had to listen to selected excerpts.

It doesn't matter, because when John rewrites the whole thing four resets later, Jack's so bored that he edits it for grammar and spelling; John cannot place a comma correctly to save his life.

Jack writes a test in true and false format, and John gives him a set of short answer questions, and they go to their respective hiding places to complete them, snorting and mocking. Jack annotates his answers with diagrams, and John comes all over his and then licks the paper so that the ink is all smudgy. Then they present each other with diplomas, set them on fire, and John makes hats out of a lampshade that end up resembling the ones they had worn at their graduation from the Time Agency (back then, Jack had called them cock hats and he'd been right).

Then they have sex missionary position, and their verbal critique of each other's performance is longer than the act itself (To this day, Jack is fairly sure that while he wouldn't repeat over half of what he and John did, knowing it all has made him the fantastic fuck that he is today).

So Jack isn't sure how they had missed such a huge section in their education. But it comes to light six months later, when he's pissed at John, who is flicking matches at him while he's trying to rewrite his crossword puzzle in a manner that will make it impossible for him to decipher the answers later. If he'd had retcon, he'd wipe his own memory so that it seemed new, but he wonders what John would tell him about himself, and he decides that he's better off drug free. Drug free, for fuck's sake.

The third match hits his hair and he can smell burning, so he turns to John and says, "No really, eat shit and die," before tossing the pack of matches at the wall.

John is quiet, reaching out to retrieve the matches. And then. "Oh. We forgot about _that_."

Jack doesn't say anything, because he has no idea what the fuck John is talking about. This is not a new development. Also, he'd stopped trying to figure John out about five weeks after they had first partnered together; because there's nothing to decipher about John: he's brilliant and ruthless and conceited and on very rare occasions, willing to do the right thing because once, long ago, he was a good man who just gave it all away. But Jack doesn't ask what did it, because it's none of his business, and so he never tries to understand John. Instead, it always comes to him.

Like now, John lights the match and promptly singes his own eyebrow. "Woah."

Jack snorts but doesn't look up. If he translates the whole thing into Naftaali, he can make the crossword puzzle clues into a short story about a goat farmer.

"No really," John says, hitting his arm, "how did we forget that one?"

"It's not happening," Jack says, because he had avoided that one thing. He doesn't like to think that he has a…thing he won't do. He doesn't want to admit that he'd rather stick his dick in a chicken ass, rather read about his partner's adventures in humping his dead body, than, well.

John, he has learnt, if he has learnt anything (except that there's nothing to learn, not really, just admitting stuff he already knows, and that's not _new_ , is it?) is not one to give things up, and if there is anything that John holds sacred, it's novelty.

"We're _Sexperts_ ," John says.

"We made that up. You'd drunk a bottle of Toilet Duck."

"We have _diplomas_ ," John replies, waving his hands.

Jack raises an eyebrow. "That was six months ago. We _had_ diplomas. And they were made out of liquor bottle labels." Then he sets his crossword aside and stretches out on the floor, head on his arms.

John sighs, but he's caught onto the idea. Jack can see the gleam in his eye. Part of him grudgingly agrees. They had simply left this rock unturned, and he's not sure why. They hadn't had any problem pissing on each other in copious amounts and under varying conditions, but somehow they'd skipped entirely the textbook section that dealt with that Jack is sure John is about to call 'fecal studies'.

"Chapter one hundred fifty-three," John drawls, his mouth already set in consideration, "'Fecal Studies'." Jack wonders if proximity with someone can make their brains meld.

"Don't call it that. We'll call it 'shit week'." In his head he is already compartmentalising the next week's worth of activities. "And we have to lay down some boundaries." Because he is not—well, the Time Agency had once told them about how many times they could eat their own shit before it lost all nutritional value, and Jack had never before considered how grateful he is that he's never had to do more than reference that as a repulsive party joke.

John smirks. "You said you were a _tri_ sexual," he leers, using Jack's old twentieth century joke, "You'll try anything once."

Jack flips over onto his stomach away from John. "Whatever."

John fucks him soundly with an eggbeater that night, and he licks the beaters. Jack tries not to watch it, but the moon is full in the loop, and he can't not.

It nags at him when he flushes the toilet, now, for the past three days, the way he can't stop thinking about it. John has planted the seed, and now it hits him all the time, the idea. When he slams the lid down and zips his pants, opening the door, John is right there, smiling. He leans into the refresher doorway and inhales, smiling.

"Stop that," Jack says.

"Oh come on." John's tone is more amused than anything else as he follows him through the hallway to the living room. "You'll come in my ass and eat it when you know that I haven't—"

"That's different," Jack says.

John's grin is small and tight, his tricksy grin. "No it's not. You just think it is."

"Semen is different," Jack says, slipping into their 'Sexpert debate voices' when he falls on the sofa and lets John slide on top of him, so they can get a little groping in while they talk about it. Idle hands and all that. And the talking is good. It lets him forget that they aren't really experts, that this is all just a distraction; though if they ever _do_ get out of here, Jack is seriously thinking of writing a book. Or a book of crossword puzzles.

"You only think it's different," John tells him when he runs his hands through Jack's hair. "It's been in there, mixing with—"

"Next you're going to try to convince me that it's a moisturiser," Jack moans, but that's more because John's dick is hard against his and he's rather humping him. It's nice, this low level touching, like massaging oneself whilst reading or in the bath, but not really to get off, just to play.

"They always buy it the first time…" John pants, and his hands, they sort of do this _thing_ with Jack's throat, pressing right into the pulse point where--

Jack snorts and latches onto John's tongue before pulling back and shaking his head. "I am open to negotiation. _Negotiation_." Then he knits his brows. "No cookware will be involved."

The room is small and hot. Jack knows that it is the fifth day in the first week, and that means that in about three minutes it's going to start pissing down outside and the road is going to get washed out. The first few times they hadn't remembered, and they'd been caught up in the current of the flash flood at least once. Jack had been rather surprised at John's poor swimming skills, but then again, water is almost too natural for Jack; he misses the lack of swimming places. This is the longest he's ever been without access to a body of water large enough to swim in, for his entire life, he realises.

John doesn't care. He lays his forehead on Jack's clavicle and grunts as he grinds his clothed cock against Jack's. "Here's what we'll do, pussy," John says, and Jack knows he thinks that's gonna provoke him. How wrong he is. "I shall experiment, and you're just along for the ride, yeah?"

Jack considers this.

"Fine then."

"Then I get _extra_ honours for being open to everything, and you get to wear the dunce hat of shame."

Jack laughs and raises his hips to lift John up a little at the groin, and they groan. "Oh, that's…that's okay."

John buries his face in Jack's neck, but Jack can feel him smiling when he comes in his shorts.

Jack forgets about it again. It's not easy to forget shit in the house because there's not a lot that he has to remember.

And it's not as if they have sex every night anymore, though some weeks they go through it in a blissful haze, moving from one aspect of touching and fingering to the next. It makes the days pass quicker when he's passed out in a come coma (he's good for ten times in a twenty-four hour period before he gets irritated, and John is slightly less, but he always points out that it is quality and not quantity.).

So they haven't really seen each other, or spoken to each other except at supper (Jack eats out of a tin of beans in the cupboard, and John has been growing…something in a bunch of swampy mud on the windowsill that he insists are mushrooms. Jack doesn't think mushrooms can grow that quickly.), and so when they crawl into the bed, John turns to him and unceremoniously sticks his fingers in Jack's mouth.

"Precious, tonight's the night."

Jack can't sigh, not with four fingers in his mouth, but he rolls his eyes.

"I want you to fuck me, and then I want to suck your cock," John whispers, "and you'll do it, because you can't help it, right?"

Jack can't even nod, because his head is pinned with those fingers, and he sucks them because that is what he knows he's supposed to do, maybe because he never lost his root reflex, really, something goes in his mouth and he sucks it. All anyone has ever had to do is brush his cheek and he's gone.

John is naked and he peels Jack's shorts from his body, licking the line of his waist and the little indentations the shorts have made on the undercurve of his ass. His cock is already hard, and now that his mouth is free, Jack raises up on the bed to lay waste to John's throat, because being pinned down always amps him up a little, as if stillness makes the energy pool in is belly and legs and arms.

John has always been a laugher, not because he's amused or embarrassed, but because he thinks others are laughable. It's that laugh that John uses when he turns over and shows Jack his back, his shoulders, the bow of his neck, with his too long hair curling about the nape (it had needed a trim when they'd gotten stuck, and after a year John had just stopped trimming it every time they reset). Jack runs his index fingers down John's spine, feeling the nubs of his vertebrae like ribbing on a uniform, a fancy-dress epaulette.

"Do you want—"

John presses his forehead into the pillow, balled and crushed under his chest and neck. "No, just do it." He scrubs the fronts of his teeth against the pillow. "You know, for fun."

Jack snakes his hand in between John's legs from behind, reaching up and grabbing the base of John's cock and pulling it down from where it's jutting up his belly. John grunts and yelps when it bends almost too much, and then he says a few creative swear words.

Jack licks the dimples just above John's ass. "I'm not Precious," he reminds John, mostly because precious makes him think of a dog his grandmother used to have, and who once spent three hours licking her ass under the dinner table. Jack doesn't want to be reminded of that right at this moment (although it's really too late, isn't it?). Instead, he releases John's cock, pulls his arm and wrist back along the crack of his arse until his fingers find the hole, and he pushes in.

They don't do more than penetrate, and John tosses the oil they use for lubricant over his shoulder so that Jack can pop the cap and pour it over his hand when he works at the muscle there, not scissoring, because John thinks that's for pussies, but curling around the rim of it and pulling a bit while he tests the waters, so to speak. It's obvious that John has purposely not used the toilet, and Jack shakes his head, more at his own foibles than anything else. He prods and pokes and twists his fingers and John shoots his backside in the air and rolls it and moans like the cattle in heat that live on the neighbouring property (they'd already visited them ages ago; Jack can vouch for the heat part.). It's both hot and a little ridiculous and he can't help but smile when he pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the blankets they use as covers.

"I'm waiting," John says, lifting his head from the pillows and looking behind him, his white teeth so straight they make Jack wonder if they're real. "Come on, then."

Jack oils his cock just a little. "You are awfully impatient. I should just jerk off all over your ass and go to the bar."

John slides back so that he's practically in Jack's lap and snorts. "I need a pounding. A _packing_ , as it were."

Jack stops. John's mouth is wry and his eyes are flashing, and that, _that_ , is something Jack understands. Unlike all the times he tests Jack out loud, using brusque and insulting words, Jack doesn't really feel it, not until or unless John's eyes do _that_. He grabs one of John's thighs and aligns his cock, knowing that he wants to hit home on the first punch.

There's more pressure than usual, and he closes his eyes and thinks of the feel of John's cock in his mouth, of a girl, maybe, or one of those six-tongued Pon-Tons in the Lotus Nebula. It's not as if he really has to think of anything, actually, when John's ass is around his cock, no matter what's inside it, and when he starts to thrust into him, John arches his back and whimpers before saying something about Cracker Jacks.

John's arse is always tight, no matter what is going on, no matter how much sex they have, no matter what Jack puts up there, but this is so much more, and he doesn't think about it, can't even smell it as he pulls back in the semi-dark and pushes in again, listening to John grunt. It can't be comfortable. Or maybe it's bliss.

"What's it like?" he asks conversationally, because they are, after all, pursuing academic enlightenment.

John raises himself up with his arms, and Jack reaches around the front to grab his cock, more gently this time, running his fingers along the foreskin and pushing it down a little. "It's ah," John groans. "It's full."

Jack thrusts a few more times, studiously not looking at his cock when he pulls out, and then holds it there, almost all the way out; if John moves too much he'll lose it altogether and have to start from the beginning.

"Think I can find your prostate?" Jack asks, wondering it for real. John starts to reply, but when Jack pounds into him so hard the bed jolts across the floor an inch and John screeches, his fingers yanking the blanket from the tight hospital corners that Jack had made that morning, Jack just smiles and is glad that the moon is full, so that he can see John's face: eyes wide in disbelief almost, jaw open, a precursor to the blow job he's going to give soon. "Oh, yeah, found it."

There are a few more thrusts and then Jack knows that he has to stop soon or he'll come and John won't get to finish his experiment, because there's no way Jack is waiting to get hard again with this shit on his dick. He pulls out and falls backwards, almost hitting his head on the footboard rails. John crumples to the mattress and humps it a little, his ass rising and waving in the air almost. Jack smacks it once, hard, and the resounding crack sounds like the thunder that will later roll through the sky. It is a dismal two weeks' weather they managed to fall into, actually.

"Okay then, Sexpert." It's a command, a little mocking, because Jack doesn't really believe that this has anything to do with being an expert in anything, and he's fairly sure that if they were to actually set out to become real Sexperts, they would need a wider variety of partners than each other, a few other humans, one Kriffyg farmer, some chickens and a few cows. But John loves the fantasy, and if that is what he needs to get through this, then well.

John's body is a pretty thing, really, all whipcord and a little bit of hair above his cock, and Jack wonders if he had it lasered off. John's skin always seems tan, as if he spends all his extra time in the sun when in fact, John likes to sleep all day and prowl the bars and darkened Agency offices at night; he's never asked where John is from, and he's never volunteered it.

Even now, John's eyes are narrow with laughter when he looks at Jack, and down at his full cock. He might have wanted to say something, but he stops, turning on the bed and crawling, oh yeah, crawling up Jack's legs, dragging his cheek along the outside of Jack's thigh, huffing the fine hairs there and stopping to lick, just a dart of tongue, a snake tasting the air.

"Any minute now," Jack drawls, because sooner or later he's going to have to look at himself. He pushes himself up on his elbows and rests his head against one of the rails of the footboard, and if he isn't careful his skull will roll to either side and wedge in between the two closest rails; his head is just the right size to squeeze in there, he knows from experience, and it hurts.

John runs his hand down Jack's cock and presses his palm to his face, inhaling with his nose and then his mouth. "You know," he says in his best 'Sexpert voice.' "Humans have an aversion to the unclean. For millennia, Jack, they've made rules to keep themselves clean, protected, safe." He licks a long line down his palm. "But it's shit," he whispers, closing his eyes. "It's a lie, Precious."

Jack grabs the back of John's head and guides him to his cock. The smell is faint in the room, and he has to admit that it's not nearly as disturbing as he had thought out would be. For a myriad reasons probably. He's smelled worse, actually, in the middle of sex, with all its strange noises and locations and positions. He's gotten a handjob from the Pew**j, and they live in manure swamps.

He isn't sure why he is transfixed then, when John sinks his mouth down on his cock, managing not to seal his mouth on it until it is almost entirely down his throat. His eyes roll back into his head and he breathes heavily though his nose when he rasps his tongue along the underside, and Jack's head lolls enough that he almost gets wedged in the rails. He forces himself to watch John slide off his cock and studiously pull the foreskin back, licking the head and the slit with the tip of his tongue. It's almost painful, the way John does it, worrying the slit with his bottom teeth before letting the foreskin roll down over his tongue a little and working it around in the space there before pulling back and returning his attention to the rest of the shaft, his hands grasping the base and Jack's balls.

They aren't Sexperts for nothing, Jack realises, and if they truly are masters of anything, it is each other. Night after night of John's mouth on his dick have led to this economy of exercise, in some ways, and he can't regret it, because when John decides to go to the head of the class, he does it by breaking all of the little rules he knows about Jack. He pulls when he shouldn’t and balances it with sucking; he hums a payment for a painful bite. He licks and blows and rubs his molars against Jack's cock.

Jack sucks in a breath. "Eat shit, not my cock," he mumbles and his head falls back against the rails with a hollow metal ringing sound.

John bites down and he yelps, but before he even makes the noise, John has enveloped him again, and his head starts to move, rapid-fire rhythm. His spit is lubricating the whole process, mixed with the oil they use and whatever had been on Jack's cock when he'd pulled out of his arse.

"I'm sorry, Precious," John says when he comes up for air. And then he finishes Jack with some swirling and a vacuum that makes Jack wedge his head in between the rails and not even care that his temples are being squeezed because it feels like everything that's worth anything is shooting out of him into John's throat.

By the time he can extricate his head and open his eyes to look around, John is sitting on his heels, wiping his mouth and examining Jack's softening cock as if he is looking for something. He seems to be satisfied with what he sees, because he leans up and grabs Jack's head in both of his hands and kisses him, his tongue hot and foul tasting and rough, and Jack can't begrudge him that.

They lie there and try to catch their breath, and then into the darkness, Jack hears John mutter, "Class dismissed."

Later, they sit in the bathtub, Jack behind, John sprawled out in between his legs and lazily playing with the bar of soap that they have, squeezing it in his hand until it shoots in the air and before catching it with the other, only to repeat the action. Jack looks at the curls at the nape of John's neck, and from this side, he looks so much younger, so much more like a young man who is for all the world enjoying a bath with his lover.

Oh, if only, sometimes Jack thinks. John and he hadn't been intimate for their entire partnership, and this time together had facilitated it, actually, not that Jack hadn't thought of it before. Jack might have suspected the Time Agency of setting them up, if not for the fact that they had once sat him down before he'd met John and told him that John was a good agent, but too much time with him was not _advisible_. He can't imagine that they'd do this to him.

Sometimes, at moments like this, he doesn't mind.

"I'm a Seeeeeexpert," John sings, turning in the water, onto his side, so that he can wrap his arms about Jack and bury his face in Jack's neck. His hair is damp and smells like fruit, and he needs a shave; his chin burns Jack's skin when he presses it. That might be the point.

"I know," Jack says with a sigh. They are clean and happy and drowsy and Jack has worked past it, wondering why he had cared in the first place, why there are things that they draw the line over. Maybe this time here has shown him more than he is considering.

The bathtub water bubbles when John farts and Jack groans. "You're an arse," he says, but he doesn't move. John hiccups a laugh into Jack's collarbone.

"I'm a Sexpert. I win."

Jack ignores him and instead listens to the water drip from the tap, wondering at how it's intimately familiar, for how many times he's sat in this bathtub and heard it before, each solitary drop hitting the water—plink, plink, plink. Then he thinks that this water is the same water every two weeks, but he's not the same Jack. And this isn't the same John. Three weeks ago he might have drunk this water, or wait no, the pipes aren't connected that way. Okay then. This was always meant to be bath water, regardless of the time loop, and that's comforting.

He thinks that he might have made a break through on his crossword puzzle translation.

John slides down into the water, his head submerged right in-between Jack's legs, his knees and calves thrown over the far end of the bathtub. Jack watches him blow bubbles out of his nose and blink at him through the haze of the slightly dirty water. They both grin, and John breathes deeply, grabbing onto Jack's feet when they press his chest down into the tub.

John doesn't struggle much. Jack sighs and wonders how long it will take this time. It's getting old. Then again, everything is old now.

Even, he thinks when John waves and smiles under the filmy water, being a Sexpert.

END

**Author's Note:**

> cruentum is sad that I didn't give him credit: he dared me to do this. I said I would if he did, and he's writing something else that is probably going to be more graphic and spectacular than this could ever be. LOL. Never let it be said that I cannot be dared, like a freaking ten-year-old.
> 
> Also, blue_fjords, who has not and will not read this fic, would like to remind us all about [International Respect For Chickens Day](http://www.upc-online.org/respect/). ::bows head::


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